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Titles
THE PARTY'S OVER
The night is finally over.
It's been a dark, filthy
night.
The Money God
has prevailed,
everyone rushed
after his lurid cry.
Eating
Drinking
Singing
Dancing
They all did it,
tonight.
And now that the sun is rising
I'm the only witness left.
I quiver.
You, soul,
you are restless.
They sleep,
tossed by the spirit
of alcohol.
They're empty empty empty –
they're three times empty.
They, the empty, sleep –
I am suffering.
To find you, soul,
can only mean pain,
the pain
of one who had forgotten you,
of one who had imprisoned you.
But now freedom, memory,
at the time when all
seemed lost.
And I suffer even more
for the world has gone on
anyway
without you.
Soul, my soul
enjoy these few moments
of freedom:
soon the empty ones
will awake
and their emptiness
will fill the universe.
And you will have to return
into your prison –
the world is so used to living
without you.
Order,
rule,
custom,
have all been fixed:
there's no room for change,
for thinking,
for improvement.
The Money God has won,
that slip of paper has taken everything,
has given a value to everything,
except to you, soul.
You are worth nothing,
whoever believes in you dies
or abandons you.
He, the Money God, gives life.
You, poor soul, give indigence.
And you keep thinking,
you continue to hope,
that one day,
perhaps one day,
you may have a value.
You think,
you hope,
that the night
will really end.
But the night, your night,
has just begun.
The void has filled everything
and you in the void are void,
you can't breathe, you can't hold out
in the void.
Even time,
even your old ally
is void.
You, soul, and you, time,
no longer play in the Absolute.
The empty ones have found you,
they have measured and classified you,
they have stretched and shortened you,
they have taken space away from you.
Poor soul!
Once you lived beyond,
now you only live within
time.
A miserable time,
useless,
measured by the hands
of a clock.
Your night, soul,
the night you hope is over
could be the night of eternity.
1st July 1990
(up)
REBIRTH
When this body of mine
will allow my soul to wander
in the infinite spaces of the universe
don't cry for my death
but rejoice at my soul's freedom
Bury this body of mine
together with the seed of an oak-tree
Water it with care
make the seed sprout
and let the tree grow
This body of mine will feed the roots
that will cling well to the ground
while the branches will rise to the sky
Then my soul will come back
and inhabit that tree
23rd July 1990
(up)
COURTYARDS
To walk into ancient courtyards:
how many emotions seize
our cemented hearts,
asphalted like a road.
Statues, arches, columns, coats of arms,
gardens, old worn-down stones
come before our eyes
the only witnesses of a spirit
that precedes us.
Those courtyards:
the lives that had animated them
now are no longer,
they are a hidden memory, buried,
that longs to speak to us,
but we do not listen to it.
It would suffice to lose oneself,
to abandon oneself, to listen, to feel,
in order to understand…
Understand that we are all equal,
that we are part of the whole
that wraps us all in its womb,
invisible but welcoming,
that accepts everyone and rejects no one.
For the universe is a courtyard
that surrounds us with its essence –
you cannot see the whole of it,
but only partially,
a little at a time.
27th July 1990
(up)
THE DOT
The pen runs, dot after dot,
over the white page.
The computer writes, dot after dot,
the letters that were pressed.
Many dots forming words,
many dots fixing thoughts.
And every dot could be
a letter, word, thought, dream,
one ordinary moment that follows
and precedes any other.
The dot can be everything,
all words, all thoughts,
all dreams, all possible intellects.
Take the dot and all comes to pass
infinite and unique, unrepeatable.
The dot is the divine, invisible,
without form, without size –
the dot is nothing.
Without the dot nothing will be,
nor could it ever be…
19th November 1990
(up)
SPRING
A level calm
stirs my thoughts
stretched over a valley
of green pastures
crawling with ants
overflown by swarms of bees
Each ant a thought
Each bee a poem
12th December 1990
(up)
LOVE SONG
The moment that comes out
of this head of mine
cankered with bogus living
fixes itself on a piece of paper
to look even less truthful.
If I were a businessman, lawyer or clerk
such a problem would seem absurd
for wealth and human law would be
the only goals longed for and sought.
Instead I am here, on the slope of the volcano
searching for what is not there
that has conceived and created me
rewriting the same song.
But the more I write it the more it seems incomplete
the more I write the less I have written
the more I learn the more I have to learn
the more I know the more I am ignorant.
The path towards the mouth of the volcano
leads closer to the edge of the abyss
to the final version of the song which perhaps
while I fall I’ll be able to recite.
9th February 1991
(up)
RUINS
The air lacerated by prosperity
weeps tears over bodies
mechanised, oppressed, unnatural.
Tired eyes try to see a future
through the eternal fogs that wrap
hearts turned to stones.
The past no longer gives comfort:
ancient ruins, desecrated, faded,
watch desolate time precipitate,
they crumble under the hard blows
of the heavy air
that compresses the soul
come to a mere nothing from nothingness.
10th March 1991
(up)
DOMUS
Brick upon brick,
rotating cement-mixers,
sloshing trowels,
cold chisels.
A wall rises
here, there,
to the right, to the left.
Here and there a window,
and the entrance.
The roof, the plaster,
the electric circuit,
the water pipes, the chimney.
It's been hard work,
now there is the house.
But inside,
what shall I put, inside?
21st March 1991
(up)
SCIENCISM
Matter seizes my thoughts,
confounds my soul,
distracts my being.
A new religion devoted to emptiness
inundates life, sinks into boredom.
Is paradise really lost
in this reason void of imagination?
A dreamless sleep
consumes the human flame
consuming passion.
Zeus, Jahve, Christ, Allah,
you have withdrawn with your thought
from the minds of your children
who wander abandoned now
building partial absolutes,
lost in a space and a time
they believe infinite.
26th March 1991
(up)
CREATION
Beam of sunlight penetrating
through a space
between half-closed shutters,
the smoke of a cigarette rises,
meets and mixes with you:
and there are vortexes,
reflections and disturbances.
In that area a universe
is formed, new and unique:
galaxies of smoke rotate
round a new-born idea,
born of the ashes of a substance,
formless and useless,
that by burning itself creates.
28th March 1991
(up)
ASPIRATIONS
The snake sucks at an egg,
he has pierced the shell and ingests,
sucks the albumen to get to the yolk,
the longed for center.
He slows down his eager drinking
the better to taste the moment
of excited anticipation
when he first grazed the shell.
21stApril 1991
(up)
FLORENCE
The Arno flows furiously
while a sunbeam
cuts through the blanket of clouds
that darkens the city of Dante
drawing a circle of light
motionless
on the bursting waters
that beat against the pillars
and drag along with them
severed limbs from the mountains
4th May 1991
(up)
IN THE MAZE
In a mysterious land
among ancient walls in ruins
the cheeping of unborn chicks
reaches faintly my attentive ear
The mystery guides me into the deep darkness
step after step
span by span
angels and demons torment my mind
drops of water
tears
on my face
In the distance a faint light
shadows run along walls of nothingness
crystals gleam like stars in the sky
a flame licks my being
I feel the stone breathing
I advance wrapped by the obscurity
guided by that light still far away
great worlds rotate around my thoughts
forming words
ancient words
forgotten words
Like clouds after the storm
the darkness suddenly breaks
a sunbeam shines again
and I am naked on the earth
soiled with blood
Who has won,
myself or the beast?
3rd September 1991
(up)
NEW YEAR'S DAY 1992
Four faces round a table,
four lives counting the seconds, –
a new year is about to begin.
We will start this journey together, –
we will go through gloomy woods,
we will climb over mountains…
…will we find the way to the stars?
1st January 1992
(up)
DREAM
Dream of green meadows covered with flowers
where many-coloured butterflies fly
under a soft spring sun
that advances slowly in the clear sky.
Dream of a fresh and light breeze
that softly brushes your face,
kisses your neck, moves your hair,
that wraps you in its tender embrace.
Dream and dream on
for me as well.
2nd January 1992
(up)
TAROTS
Two Lovers lying on the sea-shore
are watching the waves that break on the beach –
in their eyes the light of the Sun
reflects their new-found love.
Along the coast comes a Chariot
pulled by two powerful steeds –
the white one looking to the East,
the black to the West.
The Empress looks at the scene,
she has already won the wily Devil
and has rescued the poor Hanged Man
that had sacrificed himself for mankind.
Now the Stars shine high in the sky,
they guide the sailor in his journey
in search of the lost harbour
where his sweet woman weeps for him.
And an Emperor without an empire
looks to the horizon from his Tower
while a Magician stirs the potion
that maybe will turn lead into gold.
8th January 1992
(up)
A USELESS SONG
I
The days follow each other lazily,
Jupiter Pluvius spills his tears
on the world that does not want to be cleansed,
and cries his sorrow from the edge of the cosmos
where man, amorphous, has banished him.
With logic and science men have chained themselves
to the pole of the transient, they listen to the harpies
that insist that this is good,
that man is on the right track,
while demons destroy his mind.
So let's go to the beach, let's go on vacation,
burdened with suitcases and misunderstood resentment
towards the fathers lost in the coils of time
without even the right to exist,
replaced by an ordered electron beam.
II
A child, I dreamed of having a magic wand
to punish the bad and to reward the good;
a boy, I dreamed of finding a magic ring
to become the hero that saved the world;
an adult, I write poems to touch men's hearts.
But for the State Homer is just part of a syllabus,
for the Church Dante exists only since 1921,
for Greenaway Shakespeare is a frightening nightmare,
for society Ezra is still a Nazi-Fascist:
I am nobody in search of a withered flower.
I have only found an odd beast,
perhaps a benevolent spirit, perhaps a demon,
an animal that speaks with strange sounds,
who has escaped the pitfalls of time and men,
exiled in a gully, but free in the universe.
Down there the fathers go to visit and comfort him,
crowds of nymphs, dormice and beavers keep him company,
abandoned children, at night, find shelter there
and tell him their stories, their sorrows,
leaving at dawn to return among men.
III
Tomorrow will be another rainy day, sunless,
for our hearts full of money and ready profits,
where mine is mine and yours should be mine,
where freedom is just a vain appearance,
not a legitimate human aspiration.
6th July 1992
(up)
THE GOOD GARDNER
The grass in my garden is tall,
the vegetable garden is covered with weeds,
the olive-trees look like shrubs.
For a year I have lived close,
for months I haven't written a verse,
and I have searched in vain,
sealed in my shell,
for that order, that symphony.
And now, while I mow the lawn
the swallows fly by my side;
after freeing the plants in the vegetable garden
tomatoes and salads grow exuberant;
the olive-trees, pruned at last,
are blooming.
And I, a good gardener, now
hear a sweet melody.
6th July 1992
(up)
THE FOOL
I am just a fool who is singing
not in a valley of tears, my dear,
but in a desert of false laughs,
of ferocious protests and base injustices.
6th July 1992
(up)
THE TELEPHONE
Millions of small messengers
run along miles of wires,
fly over oceans and mountains,
to take far away voices
from one end of the world to the other.
They move in ordered groups,
moving at the speed of lightning,
bringing the far away friend
into my little house.
With the blast of a trumpet
they announce their arrival
and promise to repeat each word,
each breath, each sigh.
They are minute indivisible dots
forming words,
words that men entrust to them
so that thought may have no boundaries.
But, alas, nothing's changed:
wars, threats, deceits, lies,
continue to rule the world
and ideas hardly make themselves heard.
12th August 1992
(up)
LAST WILL
When I shall die
no priests
nor funerals
nor useless weeping
must disturb
my sleep
I do not want to be remembered
for what I may have been
and certainly never was
15th August 1992
(up)
READING QUASIMODO
On broken hearts falls the night,
autumn inundates their thoughts,
winter numbs their senses.
We are all alone in this garden,
we have been sent here on exile
with only the heart to protect us.
We must listen to that old friend
who reanimates our thoughts,
who makes possible infinite paths.
And then broken hearts will be glad,
the sun will rise again, spring will come,
and we all will pick the summer fruits.
20th August 1992
(up)
THE GREAT SLEEP
To sleep…
To sleep…
How can one sleep
with all these corpses in the streets
like autumn leaves on an avenue
and all for a mere crust of bread?
How can one sleep and wander
like a sleepwalker
through rivers of blood
driven by winds of hate
that everyone blows in the name of god?
The sky is in ruins
gods angels and demons
have gathered their adornments
loaded their mules
and have ridden away
on their idea
And yet the birds keep singing
the flowers keep blooming
the trees are full of fruits…
Perhaps it would suffice to open our eyes
to look peacefully on the miracle repeating itself
for the soul to be able to come back
with each new dawn
21st August 1992
(up)
WAITING
Anxiously I wait for your arrival,
for our time and our space
to coincide finally, to meet
in whatever part of the universe.
Where am I? Where are you?
We are two dots in a book,
everywhere and nowhere.
It depends on how we turn the page,
on how and when we mark it,
if with graphite or ink,
if in haste or with patience.
Meanwhile I wait, between hope and fear,
for the coils of time to unwind,
for West and East, North and South
to be all in a single point.
Who am I? Who are you?
We are two moments of a play
everything perhaps, perhaps nothing.
27th August 1992
(up)
I CHING
I
Winds chase each other around the world,
they run into each other and combine without respite,
they raise seas and lower mountains
in the eternal and merry game of becoming.
Like winds the captains give out orders,
start wars and sign truces,
build up armies and destroy cities
in the fleeting and sad fight for survival.
II
It's in the little things that joy is to be found,
when there are still places to go to
and other human beings to be met.
But one has to become a child again
and look at last under the bed
to seek and to find the truth.
III
As the trees grow slowly on the mountain,
driving their roots between earth and stones,
so man grows strong and perhaps happy
if he advances with gradual rhythmic steps.
Captains and armies will not vanish
but the upright man may find the spirit
that carries with it the gift of life
and that spreads like the scent of mimosa.
27th August 1992
(up)
INSTRUCTIONS FOR USE
Life is a succession of instants
of intricate hexagrams
of tarot cards
of thrown dice
of fleeting moments
Life is a continuous mutation
a succession of events
a constant adjustment
a perpetual change of mind
a whole made up of fleeting moments
One needs courage to survive.
27th August 1992
(up)
CONDENSATION
Thoughts take on images,
a few, sharp, in motion,
they strike the screen
of my heedless mind,
and language takes form,
it joins syllables, words,
many small quanta of nothingness
rotating in improbable orbits,
each one with its story,
each one with its poetry.
27th September 1992
(up)
THE MOUNTAIN TOP
I'd also like to climb the mountain,
to start the search for God and the eternal flame,
to find the peace and wisdom of the great minds.
But I keep staying down here, on the earth,
playing with ideas, images, words,
yet believing in the spirit and the soul.
How could I –
artless heavy flesh,
small suffocating soul –
aspire to the peak?
Better stay where I am,
look up, past the clouds,
and tell tales of the stars.
30th September 1992
(up)
THE STORM
A flash of lightning in the night:
for the fraction of a second
a world materialises:
houses, trees, fields, hills,
jump out of the darkness dazzled
with forms unseen before…
30th September 1992
(up)
FANCIES
There are days I'd like to
take the world,
spin it on my finger
like a ball
and hand it to you
so that your eyes
smiled.
Life, you’ll tell me,
is something else
and the earth, alas,
is not a toy.
Then I'd like to
catch the moon on a lasso,
pull it out of the stars
like a cowboy
and hand it to you
so that your eyes
shone.
Life, you’ll say again,
is something else
and the moon, alas,
only a fool would catch it.
So I say:
let madness come
if it means to depart
mounted on a comet
to journey into infinity
in search of a gem
worthy of your eyes.
5th October 1992
(up)
WISHES
I'd like to take you to the beach of the world
at the edge of the sea of the universe
and tell you the story of every grain
of my body, even of the smallest one.
I'd like to take you to the roof of the world
on the mountain top of the universe
and show you the density of each cloud
of my soul, even of the lightest one.
I'd like to take you to the cavern of the world
at the center of the circle of the tribe of the universe
and let you listen to the telling of each tale
of my mind, even of the shortest one.
I only ask for your glance.
5th October 1992
(up)
PERHAPS
If I only found the courage to speak
instead of staying here writing
making up insubstantial verses
creating impossible worlds
dreaming, of a love never revealed.
What else could I do
struck dumb by my fears
besieged by my darknesses
blinded by my mind?
Why don't you speak first?
Perhaps fear will vanish
the darknesses will be torn apart
the mind will be illuminated…
5th October 1992
(up)
THE BEST OF POSSIBLE WORLDS
How can one believe in a better world
when we spend our time on earth
playing, laughing and joking,
and sometimes watch a child
die on television
to feel ourselves alive?
5th February 1993
(up)
AND I SHALL PRAY IN SILENCE
For too long I've been indulging myself in a silence
of words never spoken, rage never shouted.
Life a dream within a dream
waiting for a God who from the sky
will never come to wake me from my torpor.
For too long I've been sailing on words not my own
delegating to others the craft of living.
Existence a repetition of illusions
in expectation of a Destiny that never will be
to free myself from this guilty inertia.
Far away voices whisper sweet melodies
smothered by the clamour of the individual
who rummages every corner of the world
who probes the depths of space
in search of answers with no questions.
It's time to break the silence
to disembark from this raft
to leave for new horizons
to descend into the well –
deep down –
down to the hearth where galaxies of sparks
are born and die
in the black hood of the fireplace –
in a moment's eternity –
where form finds content
substance will.
In awe
only then I’ll bow my head
offering my bare neck on the block
and I shall pray in silence.
10th February 1993
(up)
AT AN IRISH FIREPLACE
Careless friends return to the harbour –
the sail that fills with the evening wind
is here at my feet, motionless.
They think they forgot it
but I'm sure that I saw them,
yesterday evening,
stow it on the deck of the boat.
It's been the Banshee, at night,
after raising his piercing cry,
to warn me that my time had come,
that today he would take me away
into the blue of the sea
towards the great timeless ocean.
The friends' boat gets nearer
against the red background of the sky
herald of the nearby day
that renews promises and hopes.
The cock crows thrice:
I'd like to run away.
And the boat at the wharf
and the friends’ call to follow them
and the reefs of the island
that stands out like a ghost
against the solar disc:
the Banshee's there, he's waiting,
he knows I will not fail,
nothing will delay this voyage
to where only the imagination
spreads the last net.
18th March 1993
(up)
SISTER NIGHT
The night falls
and the day
tired at last
crouches
about itself
behind the hill.
Tomorrow it’ll return
to write
another page
of life.
Meantime
sister night
spreads over the world
her blanket
of moon and stars
and commands silence.
21st March 1993
(up)
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